Lioness, outside The Garden Not all is lost - my lion walks loyal beside us. She was where I lay my head under the low stars, in the uncomplicated, verdant heart of living; where ground-wings opened to pink and perfume ever-present. He called her Ariel. I call her Ari. She carries the star-thrum energy of earth newly created; all fire eyes and focus, yellow allegiance, claws on instinct. Whereas I - I can't stop thinking. I leave our tent; bark and stem like praying hands and rest on her sand-coloured fur - She is still the same; four-legged land of the horizon, muscles of vine and forehead of moss, a head that moves like water around a river bend - a moving, prowling garden. No, not all is lost. LJ Ireton, 2024
The heartbeat of the whale-throat sea is slow, pushing a world's blood: blue heavy with history, into prophecy that licks into waves like a dragon's tongue frothy with wind and disbelief. But I believe – my red rhythm recognises something floating furious, my own pulse dances in the bigger beast's drum. And creature, we scream the dirt and silver of the storm, eroded limbs and salt-eyed strong breaking the line of water into a circle – myself into myself back up to the surface. C. LJ 2025 (Inspired by Six Wild Crowns)
The winter solstice wind blew away the unwanted, turning lead into cobwebs; grey withered fingers failing to grip the light underneath. Like my own ribcage has been swept for dust, a small star thuds sensing the ascent. Anticipation rows across the sky, along my bloodstream. The morning is the colour of a sheep's fleece; not clean, but grazing. We held on, I held on with small flames from fairies and candles - But the relief, the relief of the day returning, fields in sight. LJ Ireton, 2024
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